


Hand Gentle, The Longlashed Eyes

by wardo_wedidit



Series: I See Fire [1]
Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Library, Background Relationships, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mini, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 20:03:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardo_wedidit/pseuds/wardo_wedidit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Nick's a university librarian and Harry's an English student and they get all hot and bothered over literary references.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand Gentle, The Longlashed Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goingmissing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingmissing/gifts).



> Response to a prompt from [goingxmissing](http://goingxmissing.tumblr.com/). Rachel is an evil, evil girl who knows my weaknesses and plays them shamelessly. Blame her for everything.
> 
> (Filled on tumblr, title stolen for "Proteus" of _Ulysses_ because I am predictable.)

Nick really, really likes his job. His dad thought he was mad for studying English at university when he was a student, but he’s right where he wants to be, so who’s laughing now? 

He loves being a university librarian. He gets to be around books all day long, and he gets to help students, and he has _amazing_ friends here in the city, and a good dog, and all-in-all a nice little life. So what if romance is a little bit lacking at the moment?

Okay, so _maybe_ being single for the better part of the last eight years is not ideal, he’ll admit that, but it’s not his fault. The “parade” (Henry’s word, not his) of men in and out of his bedroom in recent years were all just fine for a shag or two, but none of them were really commitment material. Nick has absolutely no delusions about that. It’s not like he sought them out on _purpose_ ; it just sort of worked out that way. And gradually, Nick simply got tired of answering Aimee or Pixie or Alexa’s pestering about why things didn’t work out with the latest guy. So he just started saying he wasn’t interested in a _relationship_ long-term. 

Which is such a fucking lie he’s almost surprised his friends don’t call him on it. Maybe this way it’s easier for them too, but Nick tries not to think about that too much and focus on the fact that it just works better for everyone involved as an unspoken understanding. But really, they all know that Nick wants the whole nine yards… three kids and a house with a white picket fence and a dog and someone he can laugh with. Someone who’ll do stupidly domestic things like sit with him while Nick watches _The X-Factor_ with weird obsessive fervor and argue with him over whose turn it is to put the baby back to sleep and kiss him over dinner cooking on the hob. Someone he loves, and who loves him right back. 

But in the meantime, he’s not asking for much. Just a casual dating relationship with a decent person, and pretty good sex. 

None of which he can have with Harry Styles, who is currently entering the library with his usual beaming smile and messy hair. Nick sort of melts pre-emptively, and it’s like he can almost _feel_ his brain despairing of him right there. 

Harry spots him and waves, heading over to the Humanities Reference Desk, where Nick is currently seated. He grabs a chair from an empty table and parks himself on the side of Nick’s desk, so he’s out of the way of people who might actually need assistance and line up in the front, but still close. “Hiiiiii!” he says, bright and cheery, smile a mile wide. 

“Hello Harold,” Nick sing-songs back, perfectly pleasant, trying to keep his eyes focused on the computer in front of him without success. They traitorously flick over to catch Harry doing that exaggerated pout that Nick knows means _that’s not my name,_ and Nick’s mouth curls into a smile before he can stop it. “What are you doing here again so soon? Give me some time to miss you, Jesus.”

Harry laughs, head thrown back and eyes all crinkly and Nick feels himself flush. Oh god. This is all so undignified. 

“Zayn has Perrie over again. Needed the room,” Harry explains as he pulls his coursework out of his bag, spreading it out over the empty side of Nick’s desk. 

Nick hums neutrally, typing away and pretending to be very busy. Well. He _is_ very busy, actually, not that he’s doing anything about it at the moment. “Bloody hell, why do you room with him anyway? That’s the fourth time this week. You spend more time here than you do there.” 

Harry shrugs good-naturedly. (Harry does most things good-naturedly.) “He’s the tidiest of my friends,” he admits, not contesting the second part, and Nick snorts. 

They each work in comfortable silence for a while, but that never lasts long. Soon Nick has wheeled his chair over so he’s right across from Harry, without really realizing it. It always happens that way. At the moment, they’re laughing so hard they can’t breathe about something stupid over Harry’s textbooks. 

It takes a minute for them to catch their breath, but when they do, they lock eyes and Nick feels something flutter in his stomach. Harry’s looking at him from underneath the gentle swoop of his lashes, mouth curving intimately in a way that is making Nick think things he definitely, definitely shouldn’t be. Suddenly he’s desperate for any distraction. 

So he grabs the book Harry’s bent over. He’s been scribbling in the margins for most of the last hour. Nick pushes his glasses further up on his nose and sure enough, once his eyes focus better he can see Harry’s looped and slanting handwriting cramped along the pages. “You have the attention span of a goldfish, Styles. What are you meant to be reading anyhow?” He flips a couple pages back and sees the title, a laugh escaping him. “Oh. James Joyce.”

It’s _Ulysses_ to be exact. Harry’s in “Proteus,” and obviously puzzled by Nick’s reaction, eyebrows raising a little on his face. “What?”

Nick shakes his head and lays Harry’s book back on the desk, raising his hands in a show of innocence. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, young Harry--” _Christ, why can’t he stop these things that come out of his mouth!_ “Joyce is just. Not my favorite.”

Harry’s brow furrows. “Why not?” He sets his chin on his hand, mouth a little bit frowny, like he’s genuinely interested in Nick’s opinion, which is _so absurd_. 

“I dunno, he’s just too fiddly for me. Have to sit there with a dictionary in one hand, an encyclopedia in the other, and grow a third hand to hold the bloody book, don’t you! Besides, he can’t keep his head on straight for more than two seconds before he’s onto the next thing. My short attention span can’t abide it. And too much French!” Nick explains, running his thumb over the corner of the pages of Harry’s book. When he looks up, a slow smile is already blooming over Harry’s features, like he has a secret. “What?”

Harry pulls the book closer to him, turning it the right way round so he can read it properly. “Oh no, you’re not gonna subject me to James Joyce today, are you? Thanks but no thanks, Harold, I’ve done my time in undergrad, I’m a free man now,” Nick moans, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk to push his chair away, but Harry catches his hand and curls his fingers around it before Nick has a chance. 

He doesn’t gasp at the contact, the buzz tingling under his skin, but it’s a close thing. He looks up and meets Harry’s eyes, which are clear as ever, but something interesting and unexpected is blazing in them softly, and it’s making Nick’s heart bang fast and furious against his ribcage. 

“‘Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets,’” Harry reads, his eyes flicking up at Nick and then down, cheeks coloring a little as he’s clearly lost his place on the page. Nick bites his lower lip to keep from grinning like a madman as Harry picks up someplace else. “‘The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Loose tobacco shreds catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Raw facebones under his peep of day boy's hat.’” He looks back up at Nick, a terrifying attractive mix of smug and triumphant.

Nick wriggles his hand away for his own good, but can’t bring himself to remove it completely, keeping it close so that his index finger is just barely touching Harry’s pinkie. He blinks down at their hands, lips curling up at the edges tentatively. “‘Gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink,’” he recites. He doesn’t have to look up to know that Harry is smiling. 

“A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron,” Harry fires back, and Nick finally meets his eyes. Yeah, he’s doing that ridiculous grin that lights up his whole face. Figures.

Nick is so fucking screwed. 

“Fine,” he sighs dramatically, wheeling his chair back over to his computer. “You win this time, Styles.” 

Harry mimes tipping his hat and props his feet up on Nick’s desk. Cheeky. Nick refuses to be charmed. 

(He fails spectacularly.)


End file.
